The Iron Ship Read Free

and the grip of age to tighten on the bones within her youthful-seeming skin. Such power as hers was limited, and dearly paid for.
    Her heart pounded. Her neck throbbed with the strength of her pulse. Her throat thickened. “Has the one arrived whom I await?” The ritual question; one she thought she would never ask.
    The statue remained still. The flickering glow of her staff picked out hard lines and previously unseen details. She saw shapes in it she had not seen before. Did its form appear sharper? It had not moved.
    Her long years of vigilance had not prepared her for this. Fear tainted her exultation.
    “Have you come? Have you finally come?” she asked, abandoning the cant as she approached.
    She looked up into its great and formless face. “Am I no longer alone?” she whispered. She held her breath. Nothing. Her shoulders slumped. She took a step backwards. Something crunched under her heel. She lifted her foot. A flake of rust as big as her hand lay in three pieces, broken by her tread. A sick feeling of sacrilege welled up in her. This could only have come from the statue. It had fallen, that was what caused the noise. Her disappointment redoubled.
    A tremendous grinding hit her. She staggered back, ears ringing. A wash of heat boiled off the statue. Rust flakes exploded off it as it moved, singeing her skin. She screamed. The statue juddered into life, standing tall over her as it attained its full height. Coals burned deep in hollow sockets. The statue lifted its fist before its face, arms shaking with effort, shedding rust. The hand burst open, a violent flower, more rust pattering from it. The metal beneath gleamed. It stared at its fingers and worked them wonderingly, a creature given fingers which had never before had them, but somehow remembered their possession.
    “You have come!” Shrane cried, and dropped to her knees.
    The statue’s head swivelled, predator-swift. To a screeching of metal it stepped forward off its plinth.
    “Utelemek carramon ite delik!” It moved oddly, suddenly, without the smooth, careless delicacy of the human body, as if every movement were considered before being precisely actioned and abruptly halted when complete.
    Old words, like those in the book. Shrane had never heard them spoken but for her own voice and that of her instructress. The statue spoke them differently, without her clumsy, laboured pronunciation.
    “I, I do not understand. I...” said Shrane. She bowed low, frightened.
    “Utelemek carramon ite delik!” The voice became insistent. Angry. Intense heat from the thing hit her like a blow. The skin cracked, uncovering untarnished metal that shone with a dull maroon glow.
    “You have returned, now tell me what I must do!”
    “Utelemek carramon ite delik!” It stretched out a hand to Shrane. The hand burned forge-hot, going from red to amber. Her staff flared as bright with magical sympathy. It seared her hand, and she dropped it with a scream.
    The statue’s hand came close to her face. If it touched her it would surely kill her. She wanted to run, but could not. Its forefinger uncurled. Her skin blistered as it drew close. She was screaming in agony before it touched her. When it did, she believed it to be the end. Pain drew itself as a steel band about her head, and tightened mercilessly.
    “Know now,” the statue said. “And go.”
    There was a bang. A smell of glimmer hit by iron. Shrane fell with great weight and heat atop her.
    She awoke some time later. The thin light leaking into the cave from outside had taken on the grey of evening. The statue was over her, leaning in like a lover, supported on one hand. The fire in its eyes had gone. The metal was cold but clean, the form of god revealed.
    She was burned all over. Her skin was a mess of blisters and sores. The worst pain came from the wound upon her forehead where it had touched her. It throbbed with a sickening warmth.
    From the pain came knowledge. She knew what she had to do.
    She